


The Long Road

by EducationalAdmiral



Series: Something New Everyday [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Feeling Trapped, Fights, First Meetings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Nickname Origins, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, Some crying in the rain, Tag update 2/17/18 Racetrack shows up!, Tag update 6/6/18, This one is Spot and Crutchie centric, this sounds darker than it is, uhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-01-23 08:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12503596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EducationalAdmiral/pseuds/EducationalAdmiral
Summary: “Hey!” Crutchie yelled, his breath sputtering out as he tried to keep up with the stranger. “Slow down!”The stranger glanced over his shoulder and froze for a millisecond- just long enough for Crutchie to take in his face. His freckles and wide eyes- dark brown irises and red rimmed edges- the bright red color to his cheeks and the sour looking brown scabs on his jaw. Then, he took off running again.///Or, in a chance encounter, Crutchie makes a new friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains mild references to child abuse and death. If these things make you uncomfortable, proceed with caution!
> 
> Also- while you don't have to read it to follow the story, some part allude to one of my other works, [ Nicknames. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11570235) Check it out if you haven't already!

One moment he was standing with a paper held high over his head, a crutch under his other arm, calling a headline out to the people of New York. The next moment, he was on the ground, his crutch knocked away from him and dirt floating up in his face, a slur being thrown at him from someone who nearly tripped over his now fallen form.

Crutchie looked up, quickly repositioning himself and catching a glimpse of a stranger, a boy much shorter than himself and more bulky in stature, running down the sidewalk, shoving people out of the way in his hurry. Without any hesitation Crutchie reached out and grabbed his crutch, forcing himself upwards and chasing the strangers path down the street.

Screams could be heard from the people the stranger shoved into and out of his way, Crutchie barely able to keep pace with him while shouting apologises to the displaced people. His crutch clicked across the ground faster than even he could imagine himself traveling, but the boy showed no signs of slowing down.

“Hey!” Crutchie yelled, his breath sputtering out as he tried to keep up with the stranger. “Slow down!” 

The stranger glanced over his shoulder and froze for a millisecond- just long enough for Crutchie to take in his face. His freckles and wide eyes- dark brown irises and red rimmed edges- the bright red color to his cheeks and the sour looking brown scabs on his jaw. Then, he took off running again.

Foolishly, he tried to duck into an alley. Crutchie obviously knew these streets better than the stranger did, as he knew the dead end that awaited. 

Crutchie allowed himself to slow down a little and regain his breath. He turned into the alley, the short stranger now pinned against a wall, his chest rising and falling roughly with each heavy intake and exhale. Crutchie approached him slowly, his free hand raised with an open palm. He’d seen people this frazzled before, and he thought knew how to approach them.

“Hey- hey, it’s okay-” he tried, but the stranger only got more tense as he grew closer. His hands were balled into fists and he looked angry.

Crutchie had seen a lot in his now twelve years, but he’d never seen someone look so angry. He’d seen tears and he’d seen people mad- but this stranger was filled to the brink with what looked like unbridled rage. If it weren’t someone so seemingly close to his age, he’d be afraid and he’d back away- but he knew that kids his age with this look were always better off not left alone.

“It’s okay,” Crutchie promised, not daring to take another step. 

The strangers fists tightened and he look a step forward, baring his teeth like an animal and practically growling- radiating an angry energy that was offsetting and Crutchie felt his stomach flip.

“Back off you fuckin’-”

Crutchie’s brain ignored the word and instead focused on the stranger's face- covered with bruises and circular scabs, old and new. He remembered his own face being covered with similar injuries once, and he hated to imagine that this stranger had been in a situation similar.

“I just wanna help, honest.” He promised.

“No one ever just wants ta help. Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.”

The stranger took another brave step forward, one of his fists shifting into a pointed finger that he shoved in Crutchie’s face. Then, he grabbed the front of Crutchie shirt and ripped him downwards, reaching for his crutch. Before he could shove him down, Crutchie pulled his crutch backwards, away from the stranger's reaching hands. He lifted it off the ground slightly and swept it out quickly, managing to knock the stranger off his feet and down to the concrete, his back on the ground. He pointed his crutch and the stranger's head for a moment, then tucked it back under his arm.

“I ain’t lyin’,” he promised again. “Ise just wanna help.”

The stranger seemed to deflate at that, pushing himself into a more comfortable position on the ground instead of flat on his back. He pushed back the sleeves on his gray long sleeve shirt, revealing more circular scabs that he began to scratch at immediately. He was still tense, but he wasn’t going to run.

“What’re ya runnin’ from?” Crutchie asked the stranger, sitting down against the wall where the stranger had moved himself to.

“Bulls,” the stranger grumbled.

“Ah,” Crutchie nodded his head softly. “Why are they after ya?”

The stranger didn’t reply to that, just lowered his head and scratched at his arms again. Crutchie watched him in silence.

“I, uh,” the stranger started, but he couldn’t force his voice out of his throat. 

“It’s alright,” Crutchie mumbled. “I know somewhere private we can take this.”

Crutchie pushed himself up, using the wall for leverage. He slipped his crutch under his arm, then put out a hand for the stranger, who took it hesitantly and hoisted himself up. 

“You from Brooklyn?” Crutchie asked, his mind halfway registering the five or so papers he left back on the curb but deciding them not worth the hassle.

“Yeah, I is. How’d ya guess?”

“I assumed you'se was running in from the bridge. Was I right?”

The stranger nodded. The walk back from Crutchie’s selling spot, notably positioned close by the Brooklyn Bridge, to the Manhattan lodging house was relatively silent between the two. 

It was midday so the lodge was mainly empty. Still, just in case anyone was hanging around- Race was known to play hooky for a day off sometimes, or Romeo would decide he wanted lunch instead of dinner- Crutchie chose to take the stranger up to the rooftop to talk. He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone except Jack up there, and Jack would sell papers till sunset if he could.

On the rooftop the stranger seemed to become more relaxed. He walked over to the edge and leaned his arms against the railing, looking over the city but mainly focusing on the ant-sized people of Manhattan. It was obvious to Crutchie that he was checking for something- someone- most likely the bulls- to see if they were close to catching him. Crutchie walked over to the railing by the stranger's side, leaving a healthy space between them. 

In the silence, Crutchie looked the stranger over carefully. His long sleeves were pushed up to his elbows now and there were rough looking circular wounds- some bright red and fresh and others faint pink scars. There was rusty coloring on his finger trips, thick under his fingernails and stained in splatters on his shirt and up his arms. Mentally, Crutchie questioned what the stain might be, but somewhere deep down, he knew. 

Still, he said nothing as the stranger continued to scan the cityscape.

After a few silent minutes, the stranger seemed satisfied. He took a step back from the railing and moved back, visible becoming less tense. There were a few crates resting on the roof and he walked over to one, sitting on the ground and leaning his back against it. Crutchie followed him over a pulled another box to his side, sitting on top of it instead of on the ground and rested his crutch on the ground. The stranger looked up at him and then seemed to, for the first time somehow, register his bad leg, even though he had called him a slur for it earlier. Then, an apologetic look filled his eyes, but he didn’t vocalize it.

They sat in silence for a few more moments till the stranger asked, “I hate to be a bother, but do you got a washtub or somethin’ I could use?” He was picking at his rust colored finger tips and scab covered arms.

“There’s one downstairs in the lodge. I can take you in later, but first, you mind if I ask what happened to ya?”

The stranger frowned, but shook his head.

“Nah, I owe you an explanation.”

He took a few beats to gather his thoughts, absentmindedly reopening one of the scabs on his arm and then applying pressure with his index finger.

“I-I don’t know where to start, really.” He said quietly. 

“Hows ‘bout the blood on your fingers?”

He tensed again, then took a deep breath and let it out, closing his eyes for an instant and then reopening them. Now they had the faintest shine that Crutchie almost didn’t notice.

“I… I killed my dad. My father- I killed him.”

“Oh.” Crutchie sat up a little bit, becoming more attentive of the stranger while something in his brain said he should feel afraid, but he wasn’t. “Why?”

“Ise just.. I got tired of him fuckin’ touchin’ me.. I- he grabbed me and was gonna belt me and I couldn’t take it anymore- we’s was in the kitchen and.. I grabbed a knife before he could do anythin’ to me.” The stranger’s grip on his arm around his bleeding scab had tightened and his eyes were glassy.

“The scabs on ya.. I’m assuming..?”

“Cigars. Did it like it was a fuckin’ pass time.”

“Sounds like he had it comin’, if you'se askin’ me.”

“The hell do you know?” The stranger bit out, his voice suddenly become hostile again and his eyes snapping up to Crutchie. Crutchie tensed a bit, fuzzy memories from his early childhood flooding to the front of his mind.

“I had my fair share once. Not the same, but similar.”

The stranger seemed to shrink at that, his sudden anger fading into shame. His hands went back to the scabs on his arms, not picking at them now but ghosting over them. His eyes went from fiery to liquid. Crutchie brushed away the memories best he could a focused on the stranger in front of him.

“Hey, it’s alright, I ain’t gonna hold it against ya. You’ve had a rough day.” Instinctively, he started to reach forward to put a hand on the stranger's shoulder but he held himself back when he noticed the stranger tense at the motion. “You got a name?”

“People call me Spots- sometimes just Spot. My real name is Sean Conlon, though.”

“‘Cause of the scars?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Mainly my dad’s friends.”

“That’s awful.”

Spot shrugged.

“You got a name too, I’m assuming?”

“People call me Crutchie.”

Spot glared at him, partially because of the blatant hypocrisy and partially because, “That ain’t your real name.”

“I don’t tell people my real name.”

“That ain’t fair. I told you mine.”

Crutchie’s brows drew together and he gave Spot a look but his stubbornness persisted. 

“Fine. It’s Charlie, but don’t go around tellin’ folks that, alright? It’s personal.”

He nodded.

“You wantin’ me to call you Sean or Spot?”

“Do most folks ‘round here go by nicknames, or just you?”

“Most of the boys in the lodge do.”

“Spot it is, then.”

“Alright. How’s about that washtub, then?”

///

Spot was thankful that the lodging house was miraculously empty when him and Crutchie went it. He had been expecting at least a handful of boys, but the whole place was abandoned. Crutchie led him through and to a large tub then he pumped full of the warmest water available to them. Crutchie left the room and left Spot wash himself alone- a luxury Spot assumed wasn’t common in a house stuffed full of boys. He undressed, throwing his blood stained clothes away from him and stepping into the tub, immediately beginning to wash the dirt and dried blood off his body.

Outside of the room, Crutchie began to search. Clothes tended to be passed around throughout the lodge, moving from hand to hand to whoever it would fit. He didn’t want Spot to have to step back into blood stained clothing, even if what he had to offer wasn’t all too much cleaner than what Spot had showed up in.

Eventually his picked out a pair of black trousers and an worn out long sleeve shirt with red and gray stripes. Crutchie wasn’t sure the fit would be perfect- really, the fit of clothing didn’t need to be perfect- so he pulled a pair of suspenders out of his own stash for Spot just incase the pants were too large at the waist. He found a thick pair of socks with only one hole and figured the shoes Spot had would be fine to keep. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t even hear someone enter the room.

“Crutchie? What’re you doin’ back so early? I thought you'se was selling over near the bridge today.”

Without even looking, Crutchie recognized Jack’s voice. He was surprised- Jack was never back earlier than six and Crutchie assumed it was somewhere near three. He turned, a pile of clothes in his arms and a confused look on his face.

“you'se back early too.”

“Yeah- I saw a bunch of bulls out. I got worried the Spider might be after me again. Who are the clothes for?”

“Where were the bulls?”

“That don’t answer the question.”

“I made a new friend and he’s running from the bulls. They didn’t follow you here, did they?”

“No. Why’s he running from the bulls?”

“That ain’t really mine to tell.”

Jack looked like he was about to argue, but Spot called Crutchie’s name from the other room and Crutchie took it as the perfect opportunity to dodge this conversation. 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Stay here, alright?” He didn’t wait for Jack to answer before he turned and hobbled into the washroom, delivering the clothes to Spot and emptying the tub while he got dressed. 

When the two came out of the washroom Jack was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking as angry as he possibly could- brows furrowed and eyes sharp.

Spot, however, did not seem intimidated.

“Who the hell are you?” Jack asked.

“I could be askin’ you'se the same question.”

“Spot, this is my friend, Jack Kelly. Jack, this is Spot. He was needin’ a place to stay while the bulls was after him and I let him in here. I’ll pay his rent till he starts sellin’ papes or finds somewhere else to go. Alright?”

“Why’s the bulls after ya?” Jack asked, seeming less angry now and more curious.

“That ain’t really your business.” 

“I ain’t really likin’ your attitude.”

“Jack, he’s had a long day, alright? Leave ‘im be. And Spot, try not to start anythin’ with the other boys, please?”

Crutchie moved himself between the two who were standing nose to nose suddenly. He created a healthy distance between the two, sliding his eyes between them.

“The others will be home soon. Till we knows that the bulls is gone, you two are gonna have to deal with each other. So don’t pester each other.”

Crutchie sighed and moved himself out from between them, watching as Spot and Jack both took a few step back, postures still tense and unmoving but the space between them widening to a space that the couldn’t kill each other from. 

He had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

///

By the time the other boys came back to the lodge, Jack and Spot had been driving each other so crazy that Crutchie had to prevent them from being in the same room. The two boys, both with an issue with authority and a need for control, couldn’t get along, despite their best efforts. The other boys arrival seemed to lessen the tense mood of the lodge- Race, Specs and Romeo coming in together and a flood of miscellaneous newsboys flowing shortly after them.

Crutchie did his best to keep the other boys questions from driving Spot completely insane. Still, Race’s curiosity was unrelenting and Romeo’s physical contact was starting to make Spot’s scarred skin crawl. They went to Jacobi’s and, unsurprisingly, Spot wasn’t hungry. He sat in silence, refusing offers of food from the boys, at Crutchie’s side.

After finishing his meal, Crutchie stood, placing his crutch under his arm. The boys looked at him curiously and Jack rose an eyebrow. He brushed off their concerns.

“Nothin’s wrong, I just figured me ‘nd Spot’d head back early to get him a bed and everythin’. I’ll see you’se later.”

Spot followed Crutchie out of the deli quietly.

“Thanks,” Spot mumbled. “How do you handle them all? They’re all so loud.”

“You get used to it, eventually.”

Crutchie noticed Spot was eyeing the streets- though he wasn’t sure if he was searching for cops or violent strangers- Crutchie could guess Spot had reason to fear both.

“Don’t worry,” he assured Spot. “They’s probably sent one of the older boys out to watch us, make sure we’s get back safe. They think I don’t know they do it, but I do.”

Someone made a surprised noise somewhere behind them and Crutchie smirked. Spot seemed to relax somewhat at that- having a reason for the watched feeling. They arrived back at the lodging house safely and entered the doors. Spot felt the eyes seem to disappear as the doors shut behind him and felt his shoulders slump in relief. 

“You can take the bunk above where I sleep. Usually me and Jack sleep on the rooftop, but I won’t leave you alone with the other boys. They can be pushy.”

Spot scoffed. “Yeah, obviously.”

Crutchie smiled and laughed lightly as he made his way through the room and to a bed close to the corner. He sat down and leaned his crutch up against the wall. He started to take off his shoes as Spot sat next to him and began to follow suit.

“I ain’t expressed it enough, but thank you for helpin’ me today. I got.. real panicked.”

“No big deal. It’s what we do, we’s here for boys that ain’t got a place to go. We’re all in the same boat. Don’t be ashamed of bein’ scared, we all is sometimes.”

Spot nodded, suddenly hit by the exhaustion of the day. Once his shoes were off he set then on the floor and felt himself lean back on the bed, falling asleep with his feet dangling over the side.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot tries to go out to sell papers for the first time, but all doesn't go as intended.

When Spot woke up in the morning most of the other boys were still sleeping, the sun just barely coming through the windows of the lodging house. His back was a little stiff and he noticed he was in the same position he’d fallen asleep in- laying halfway across Crutchie’s bed horizontally with his feet sticking out over the edge. He was asleep in Crutchie’s bed, which raised the question- where was Crutchie?

Spot got up as quietly as he could, despite the fact that other boys were starting to rise quietly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, pleasantly surprised that he had slept so well. He usually couldn’t sleep in a room with other people- much less strangers.

The room quickly became noisy as more and more boys woke up, each of them adding their own complaints and comments into the air. Spot found it strange and homely. 

“Spot! You’re up!”

Spot turned when he heard Crutchie’s voice, coming face to face with Crutchie who wore a bright smile.

“Today’s a good day, you get to sell papes for the first time.”

Spot smiled and nodded, though he only half understood what was happening. He’d seen newsboys around before back in Brooklyn but they seemed different in Manhattan. The boys in Manhattan seemed cheery and bright- enthusiastic and friendly. The ones in Brooklyn were friendly- _ ish. _ He always shied away from them since he didn’t have the change. They seemed scarier. Maybe it was his newfound proximity to the Manhattan boys making the difference, he was unsure.

“I ain’t the best, but you can shadow me. Usually I tried to get Jack to let you follow him but you and him ain’t been gettin’ along, so that’d probably be bad.”

Spot was impressed by Crutchie’s excitement and felt it start to seep over into himself. He felt a smile on his features, and while it should’ve felt strange, it felt natural.

Some of the boys took baths while Crutchie decided just to wash his face that morning. The hustle and bustle of the morning was chaotic but not uncomfortable. Spot found himself slipping into the process naturally.

Jack appeared in the lodging house doors and Crutchie rushed over to greet him. Spot assumed he had slept on the rooftop- like Crutchie said he normally did. They exchanged a short word and then Jack smirked.

“Alright boys!” Spot noticed a boy by the doors, older than himself- maybe seventeen- hollering, a wide smile on his lips. “Let’s head to The World, and let’s conquer it!”

Boys suddenly took off flying towards the doors, leaving Spot, Jack, and Crutchie the only ones remaining in the lodge. Crutchie made his away back to Spot.

“Who was that?”

“Ah, that’s Boston. He’s our leader.”

“Boston?”

“Yeah,” Jack chimed in. “He’s been a newsie since he was ten. He ran here all the way from Boston- three hours straight- so that’s his name.”

Spot nodded, wondering if Spot weren’t already his nickname if they’d call him Brooklyn.

“Well, the day ain’t gettin’ any younger,” Jack said. “We’s should get headed to the distribution center, ‘fore the other boys buy up all the papes.”

Crutchie smiled and started to turn to face the door, then spun back around suddenly.

“I almost forgot!” He shouted, moving quickly across the room and back to his bed. He reached around to the side and grabbed something, then moved back to Spot.

“Here,” he presented a hat to Spot. “This’ll make it official. Your first day as a newsie!”

Spot took the hat in his hand and looked it over. It was gray and had a hole in it. He smiled as he put it on his head.

Crutchie and Jack cheered and clapped and Spot wondered if he had finally found a happy home.

///

The headline was horrible.

Well, the headline was good from a newsie standpoint- but Spot and Crutchie were horrified.

Race handed off a paper to Crutchie and let him glance over it when they’d run into him on their way to the center, the morning bell having already run.

The headline that greeted him made his stomach drop.

_ Brooklyn man found murdered in own home. Suspect seen fleeing. _

The article was grossly detailed- a careful description of the horrors done to the body- acts done out of self defensive, but still horrors- enough to make Crutchie nauseous.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the half page long description of Spot, calling him a murderer who deserved to be hanged even though he was only a thirteen year old boy. The article failed to mention the abuse from Spot’s father. It called his scars accidents from self-inflicted burns, called his nervous nature and flight or fight response a result of insanity, not a result of years of fear. It even provided a number to call if you saw him.

Immediately, Crutchie knew selling papers was out of the question. He needed to get Spot back to the lodge and fast.

Suddenly- and he knew Spot felt it to because of the way his shoulders tensed- there were eyes on them.  _ Lots of eyes. _

Crutchie reached for Spot’s wrist and grabbed it tightly. Spot glanced up at him, his eyes wide.

“We need to go,” Crutchie stated, desperately.

Spot didn’t say anything, he just nodded. Crutchie handed the newspaper back to Race and thanked him. Suddenly the amount of eyes on them seemed to double, then triple, then quadruple. The next thing either of them knew, they were running away from The World and back to the lodging house. Footsteps seemed to follow them, the watched feeling only increasing watched as they tried to escape it.

Crutchie’s leg started to ache as they ran but he ignored it. He needed to focus- he needed to get Spot safe. He couldn’t stop to breathe and he couldn’t stumble.

After what seemed like only a second and yet somehow also an eternity, he threw open the lodging house doors and he and Spot rushed in, slamming the doors behind them.

Both Spot and Crutchie were panting. Crutchie let his crutch fall to the ground and he turned and let his back slide down the doors till he was resting on the ground. Spot stumbled across the room and to the nearest bed, sitting down on it, not caring who it belonged to.

“What am I gonna do?” He mumbled, his eyes wide, entire body shaking. He could see it clearly, the noose they wanted around his neck and his father waiting for him at the gates of hell. He saw the blood on his hand, and he wanted to wash it off but he couldn’t because  _ murder- murder was forever  _ and no amount of regret changed that. He couldn’t pretend he was good anymore- he was  _ evil _ and his actions were  _ evil _ . Maybe he did belong in that noose, maybe they had every right to kill him for what he’d done-

“We ain’t gonna let them find you.” Crutchie said seriously, interrupting his train of thought. “We sure as hell ain’t. We’ll figure this out. We’s just gotta lay low. They can’t prove anything.”

“No, Crutchie, they’s gonna find me and if you’se hiding me you’ll get hurt too. I- you  _ can’t _ get hurt cause of me. I’ll leave.”

Spot stood up and started to approach Crutchie and the doors but Crutchie stood, holding out his arms and blocking the way.

“No, you ain’t. They’ll  _ kill _ you, Spot. Not on my watch.”

“What’s it even matter to you!” Spot felt his anger rise and suddenly he was yelling. He saw Crutchie’s eyes widen, then harden with determination.

“It’s matters to me ‘cause you’se my  _ friend _ . Now sit down, or I’ll make you.”

Spot felt his anger dissipate then. He had a friend, and he should trust him. He wouldn’t be betrayed here. Something in him trusted Crutchie, even if he didn’t understand why or how.

“I’m gonna get Boston, okay? He needs to know what’s goin’ on since we’s in his borough. I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere and stay hidden. Stay safe, alright?”

Spot nodded, backing off Crutchie. Crutchie reached down and grabbed his crutch, then turned and pushed open the door. He spared Spot a glance over his shoulder, then disappeared in the air of the morning.

///

Spot’s anxiety suffocated him in the solitude of the lodging house. The place once so bursting with life being silent and empty was off-putting, and the knowledge of the bounty now over his head did nothing to help settle his nerves. Every sound he heard made a chill run over his body, every whisper of wind through the window or cry from the street- each shout of headline that bared his death sentence. And they didn’t even  _ know _ . This new found family of his- he had failed to be honest with them and now, albeit unknowingly, they were crying for his head on a silver platter. 

Maybe he didn’t deserve them. Maybe they were right to call for his death. He had come into their home a murderer and slept in their ranks while promising one of their own to secrecy. He had been violent and he had taken their belongings as his own, and what right had he had to do so? They had welcomed him in without reason- Crutchie had seen his suffering and had saved him from it- and he repaid them by bringing danger.

If Crutchie hadn’t told him to stay, he would be running away. But, for some reason unbeknownst to him, he was weighed down. His guilt and pride and fear and anger were all fighting inside his head and he didn’t know what to do about it, so he sat and did nothing- and that was something enough.

Boston and Crutchie came through the doors, Boston with a concerned look on his face and Crutchie a somewhat relieved one. The door shut behind them and Spot swallowed thickly- knowing he had no reason to be scared of Boston mentally but being unable to ditch his instinctive fear of authority.

“Crutch tells me you’se in a bit of a pickle,” Boston said, approaching Spot slowly as though he sensed the fear coming off him. “I’se wanna help, but- but I have to know what’s goin’ on first.”

Spot nodded, swallowed again, and looked to Crutchie.

“I can tell him if you want,” Crutchie replied, reading Spot’s thoughts and Spot had never been so thankful. “Or you can tell him. Whichever.”

“I… I’ll tell him.”

Crutchie nodded, and him and Boston both sat at a little table sitting in the far end of the room opposite the one where Spot had slept the night prior. Spot stood and joined them, making sure he was in a seat where he could see the door. There was a brief silence while Spot gathered thoughts, hoping not to seem flustered in front of the leader of Manhattan. 

“I.. The cops are after me cause I killed my dad,” Spot said bluntly. “He was gonna hurt me, just like he always did and I just.. I couldn’t take it anymore and my instincts kicked in and I killed him. And if you want me to leave because I’m endangerin’ you and the others, I understand and I’ll leave.”

Spot was talking fast and he saw as he spoke that Boston’s face fell. Spot noticed for the first time the way Boston’s hands shook, the way his fingers tensed randomly. He noticed for the first time the sympathetic look on Boston’s face, just like the one Crutchie had given him.

“Hey- hey, kid,” Boston mumbled once Spot stopped talking. “We’s ain’t- ain’t gonna kick you out. This is a safe place for boys like us. You’se was in the right, you had to escape your dad no matter the cost. I ain’t- I ain’t about to hold that against you.”

Spot wondered silently about the term  _ “boys like us.” _ He wondered how many of the other boys at the lodge came from broken homes, how many of them would feel the effects of what happened there forever. Spot didn’t pry, he just nodded.

“Crutchie is right. We’s- we’s just gotta keep you safe ‘till they stop lookin’ for you. I gives it a week- a week or two at most, then the news will have to move on and the streets will be safe.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, and, Spot, lemme tell ya somethin’.” Boston reached his shaky hand across the table and placed it over Spot’s. “Don’t regret anythin’ you’ve done, it’s- it’s a waste of time. You did what you had to do and it’s too late to change it.”

They sat there for a silent moment, Boston’s hands resting over Spot’s, Crutchie watching and saying nothing. Boston moved his hand and patted the table twice, then moved to stand.

“I appreciate you’se comin’ to me about- about this. If you need anythin’ else, you know where to find me.” 

Spot knew the second part was directed at Crutchie. Boston waved at them with a smile, then left the lodging house.

“What happened to him?” Spot asked softly.

“That’s a story for him to tell,” Crutchie replied, shrugging. “If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

“Do you know?”

“I do,” Crutchie said, nodding. “But it ain’t mine to tell.”

Crutchie started to stand, then, grabbing his crutch and putting it under his arm. Spot rose and eyebrow.

“Where are you goin’?” He asked.

“I gotta go sell. Gotta pay our stay somehow. I’ll see ya later, Spot. Stay safe.”

Spot nodded and watched Crutchie leave the lodging house. Once he was left in silence, all alone, he let himself mourn the safety he felt the night before that had been stolen by the headline.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot has some meaningful conversations while hiding in the lodge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussions of child abuse again!
> 
> (update as of 3/31/18 - just some mild revisions to wording!)

Spot ultimately decided he hated Racetrack Higgins. He was always around the lodge during the day, popping in loudly and disturbing Spot while he tried to brood in his misery. He was a gambler, he was loud and obnoxious- his words trying to compensate for something and Spot didn’t care enough to find out what. The worst part was the cigar always hanging loosely from his lips or resting in his front pocket, like a threat from Spot’s past- just another thing he couldn’t run from.

The reporters were still printing his name in the papers, the newsboys screaming it to attract a buyer, the police still hunting for his head, and a cigar still at the hands of someone that could take him and mistreat him anytime.

Spot was miserable- no more than before, but unrelentingly so- and the presence of Racetrack Higgins didn’t nothing to console him. That was why he grumbled and sighed when, midday, he could hear him throw open the lodging house doors- his loud singing in some other language Spot didn’t recognize a tell-tale sign of his identity.

“Spot! You’ll never guess what-”

“Leave me alone, goddamnit!”

Spot’s first instinct when Race threw his arms around him was the flinch, then break his arms- then repress _that_ , and push him away instead. Given Spot’s track record- not that Race was aware of his crimes- it was a miracle that Race was still alive at this point. Spot still didn’t forgive himself for his violence towards Crutchie at their initial meeting, but he couldn’t bring himself to mention it either, fearful that if he did Crutchie would remember it and hate him.

“Oh- yeah, forgot. Sorry.” Race took a few steps back after Spot had thrown him off, dusting off his pants as though that made them clean of dirt from New York City streets.

“It’s fine,” Spot bit out.

“Anyway, I’se was gonna take a break from sellin’, if you wanted to go out with me-”

“I can’t. They’se still out for my head, _remember?”_

“Right. Well, I could bring back somethin’ for you, if you wanted. Or we could just play cards.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Spot couldn’t help the sarcasm seeping into his voice. Race crossed his arms at that point.

“I don’t see why’s you’ve gotta be so negative. I’m just tryin’ to be friendly with you.”

Spot looked him over with judgmental eyes. Race was around the same age as Spot, if a little younger. He had curly blonde hair and blue eyes, a big smile and a squeaky voice. Everything that was deep and dark about Spot was opposite of everything Race was, it seemed. Spot didn’t know why Race was trying to desperately to be friends with him, he felt as though he had made it clear that he wasn’t interested. He and Crutchie were on good terms because they had been honest with each other, and Crutchie seemed _real_ to Spot,  unlike the synthetic positivity he felt from Race.

“I don’t need your friendship.” 

“Fine,” Race huffed. “Be alone then."

And with that, he was gone.

 

///

 

Spot was bored, but he refused to admit it. He didn’t want sympathy from the other newsboys- he already felt indebted to them. They were providing them food and shelter when he didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t be asking for anymore. Race was offering him entertainment, anyway, but he just couldn’t stand the kid for some reason.

“You should give him a chance,” Crutchie mumbled one morning as he scrubbed his face clean with a wet washrag. 

“What?” Spot asked, looking up from the bed he was sitting on nearby.

“Racetrack. He’s a sweet guy, once you get to know him.”

Spot looked around, scanning the lodge for Race before he badmouthed him. Many of the boys had already headed off to the lodge. Crutchie had mentioned that the headline wasn’t great, so he wasn’t in a rush- his leg was bothering him anyway.

“Race is annoying, that’s what he is.”

“C’mon, Spot. He’s desperate to get to know you. He loves when new boys come in. Plus, you two might have more in common than you think.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That ain’t mine to tell, Spot.”

Crutchie put the rag back in its place and laced up his shoes. He put his crutch under his arms and started to head out, but not before looking over his shoulder.

“Just talk to him. It’ll be worth it, promise.”

 

///

 

Spot tried to be more open minded the next time Race came into the lodge, but it wasn’t easy. Everything about him, from his energetic nature to his smoking habit. Still, when he heard the doors to the lodge open midday he steeled himself.

“Spot!” Race’s voice rang from a distance. Spot allowed himself to roll his eyes.

“Hey, Race,” Spot called back as Race entered the room. Race was holding a newspaper in his hands, completely emerged in some article he was reading.

“It’s just as I said it would be,” Race said, walking up and holding the paper out to Spot. “Paul Revere is too slow to win the race, it had to be Valentine or Epitaph. Epitaph is favored to highly- so if you’se bettin’ against him an’ he loses, you reap the rewards.”

“And for you that means..?” Spot took the paper and glanced over the horserace information.

“Means that, since I bet on Valentine across the board, the boys over at the Sheepshead are gonna owe me a pretty penny.”

Spot nodded, and then Race fell silent.

“Cat got your tongue?” Spot asked. 

“You usually throw me outta the room by this point. I didn’t plan much of a conversation.” 

“Decided to change it up today,” Spot explained, shrugging. 

“Wish you’d warned me,” Race laughed. “If you’re gonna talk to me today, you wanna get lunch or somethin’?”

“I still can’t leave the lodge.”

“I’ll bring somethin’ back for you then?”

“Sure.”

Race smiled brightly with an unfamiliar genuineness that Spot immediately decided he liked. He turned on his heel abruptly and ran out of the lodge, not asking what Spot liked. Spot laughed and shrugged it off, pushing away a mild annoyance he felt deep down. He wasn’t used to people like Race, sure, but that didn’t mean he shouldn't learn to be kind to them.

  
Spot feared the worst of himself, and of other people. He’d spent the most of his formative years locked in his house, starved and bruised, with people who did little but hurt him. His father and his father’s friends were looming threats over his head- he could never let his guard down or they’d find him and it’d hurt worse. He never rested- but now he could and he didn’t know how. He knew only how to be cold, how to jump at the faintest sound, awaken at a breath and spring into consciousness. He knew how to run, how to bear hurt and how to deal it. He’d seen blood on his hands and hadn’t regretted- yet _had_ regretted- had felt nothing and also felt everything.

No matter what, whether his actions were wrong or right, it proved he was capable of _real_ harm and he was terrified of dealing it out unjustly. He glanced down to the scars on his arms- most of the wounds that were fresher weren’t bright red anymore, they were some in-between of scabs and regular skin, yet not scars, that didn’t quit have a name- and thought on this- that he was dangerous if not kept in check.

Some time had passed, he didn’t know how much, and Race reappeared- smile bright as ever and two wrapped packages in hand. 

“Realized I didn’t know what you liked,” Race said, holding out the packages. “So I got a ham sandwich and a turkey sandwich. Gotta preference?”

Spot shook his head no, and Race proceeded to flip the sandwiches from hand to hand with his eyes closed. After a few seconds he tossed one to Spot and kept the other.

“Me neither,” He said, smiling.

They ate in silence, but Spot could feel the air of Race’s curiosity fill the room, his eyes scanning Spot’s scared arms, the last yellowing bruise on his cheek, his bitten fingernails.

“You can ask, ya know,” Spot mumbled through a mouthful.

“I can?” Race asked.

“Yeah,” Spot replied, preparing himself silently to delve into it all, wanting to be calmer and more collected than he had been when he told it all to Crutchie. Then, he had been a jumbled mess of trauma and his hands had been covered in blood- and now he was still traumatized and sometimes he could still feel blood on his hands like a ghost but he was _working on it_ \- he was moving past it. He could put it to the side, could ignore it- could be better than it, he hoped.

“What happened?”

Spot took a breath, and let it out.

“I killed my father,” He mumbled, let it rest in the air for the second. He gauged Race’s reaction- a brow raise but no reproach, not like Spot always expected. “He hurt me- burned me with cigarettes and hit me and everything- the whole lot. I got fed up, so I killed him.”

“He sounds like a bastard,” Race replied and there was a certain tightness in his voice that Spot somehow connected to. He thought of Boston again, of _boys like us._ He had a strange feeling that Race was one of them- he, Crutchie, Boston and Race. They were all  the same in one thing- all bruised kids who could find solace in that they weren’t alone. And sure, mabe Spot didn’t know their stories, but he could feel it. He could feel the community between them, the shared trust. The _‘ain’t mine to tell’s_ from Crutchie, the _‘boys like us’s_ from Boston, and the-

 _“Reminds me of my folks,”_ from Race. The air from him had changed- less curious and more sympathetic, but not seeking comfort. “They’s nursed me on cigars if we didn’t have enough food, which we never did. I’se seen young kids smoking, but I think they started me when I was, what, five maybe?” Race pulled the cigar from his front pocket and spun it absentmindedly. “They didn’t hit me,” Race said, clarifying. “But they sure didn’t take care ‘a me. I was starvin’ most days, and they didn't care- just focused on their own gamblin’ and such. Weren’t even good at it. 

There was a brief lapse- Race seemed to sense Spot’s own curiosity now- though it wasn’t palpable in the same way Race’s tended to be.

“I might not’a killed ‘em,” Race said, smiling, “But I mighta robbed ‘em blind once or twice.”

Race stopped spinning the cigar.

“I don’t smoke much anymore,” He said, shrugging. “But it’s good to remember what ya came from, sometimes. ‘nd sometimes I do smoke, outta habit.”

Spot held out his arm, not thinking about the implication of it. Race glanced at him, half a second of hesitation, then moved the cigar and pressed it- _unlit-_ onto Spot’s arm where one of his circular scars rested. Even though it wasn’t real he felt a heat coming off it, he wanted to pull away. But he didn’t.

“Look,” Race said. “They fit together perfectly.”

Spot hummed. Race removed the cigar and put it back in his front pocket, and then they finished their lunch in a surprisingly comfortable silence.

“I needa get goin’,” Race said as he finished his sandwich. “Lights still up, papes still to sell.”

“Maybe we could do this again tomorrow?” Spot said, feeling his own rough exterior dissipate for an instant.  
  
“Sounds good!” Race said, and then he was gone.

 

///

 

Crutchie usually came back to the lodge earlier than the others, half to keep the others from worrying and half to make sure he had time to check in with Spot before the others showed up and made it impossible to get a moment of silence. Today was no different.

Spot looked up as Crutchie came in, smiling. Crutchie smiled back.

“You talk to Race?”

“I did.”

“And it went well?”

“It did.”

“What’d you guys talk about?” Crutchie asked, moving to sit next to Spot on the bed. He rested his crutch on the wall and pulled his legs up to perch them on the ledge, rubbing his busted ankle softly.

“Just stuff. He asked about my past a little,” Crutchie looked up when he said that, a concerned look of his face. “It’s okay, I told ‘em I didn’t mind. I told him a little and he told me about his parents.”

“He did?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s good. He’s can be kinda secretive about his own stuff,” Crutchie explained. “Even if he does pry into other folks.”

“Oh,” Spot mumbled. “He just told me about their gambling and being hungry.”

“Yeah,” Crutchie said. “He’s told me about that too. It’s good that you two got along. I figured you would.”

“And why’s that?”

“Figured it might be good for you both to understand each other. He kept pesterin’ me ‘bout how you wouldn’t talk to ‘im. I told ‘im it was a sign but he wasn’t gonna give in. Figured you could just skip all the fightin’ and go straight to getting along.”

Spot made an  _ ah _ sound like a whisper.

“Plus, I could tell his cigars made you nervous. I figured, if he told you why, it might help.”

Spot tensed at that- only a little. He hadn’t realized that his discomfort was visible, much less that anyone had noticed it if it was.

“Sorry,” Crutchie mumbled. “I don’t mean to be watchin’ ya. I just… I know the signs, you know? Me and Boston do our best to make everyone comfortable.”

_ Boys like us,  _ Spot’s mind whispered. 

“If you wanna know what happened to Boston, just ask ‘im.”

“You a mind reader or somethin’?”

“No,” Crutchie laughed lightly. “I’se just been where you are.”

There was a beat of silence, Spot ringing him hands nervously and Crutchie watching him.

“I wake up screamin’ sometimes,” Crutchie mumbled. “But I look around, and I see the boys-  _ I see Jack and the stars- _ and I know that it’ll be alright.”

Another beat.

“What’d they do to you?” Spot asked hesitantly.

“I got real sick when I was little, four or so,” Crutchie said distantly. “Polio, I think it was.  _ Is _ . Never went to a doctor for it, but I’se read the news. I’ve heard the name. Explains the leg.”

Spot glanced down at Crutchie’s bad leg when he mentioned it, taking in the way it curved at the ankle in a painful looking way.

“My mom died of it. My dad blamed me for it. So did one of my brothers- I had two. I started getting a lot sicker, couldn’t walk at all. My dad lost his job.”

There was a moment of silence and Spot took in the details of Crutchie’s face- every wrinkle, every freckle, his eyes aged beyond his few years. Crutchie’s eyes were glassy, a sheen over them.

“They starved me. One ‘a my brothers would try to sneak me stuff if he could but if he did and my dad found out.. It was bad. I can’t blame him for lettin’ my dad’s anger fall on me.

“Uh- anyway. My dad tried to kill me- choke me to death. He chickened out in the end, course- threw me out on the streets beat half to death and unconscious. Jack found me and got the lodge to take me in. I don’t remember a lot of it- I was real sick the whole time so it’s all kinda.. fuzzy.”

Spot felt a lump in his throat and he tried to swallow it back. He hadn’t noticed his hand reach out- shaky- or himself gripping Crutchie’s arm with it protectively. His nails weren’t biting into Crutchie’s skin, but they were close to it. Crutchie didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s… awful.”

Spot was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of anger- he wanted to find Crutchie’s dad, wanted to kill him, to wrap his hands around his throat just like he had to-

“It’s in the past now,” Crutchie shrugged. “I’m alive. I found people who love me. I focus on that.”

Spot felt his grip tighten, then loosen. He felt his anger fade to a lesser feeling- still resting in the back of his mind but not burning.

“There’s always gonna be evil in the world, I know,” Crutchie said, catching Spot’s eyes. For the first time Spot realized that Crutchie wasn’t crying- the hitched breath he was hearing was his own. “But there’s good, too. I focus on that.”

Spot thought about his father- about how he was evil and Spot had vanquished him. Spot didn’t know much of heroes, he knew that the world wasn’t so black and white as their world anyway. But for half a moment he thought that- were his world a children’s story- he would’ve been the hero, rising against the evil. He thought on Crutchie’s words- that there was good in the world. He thought on his new found friends, on Crutchie and Race and Boston and everyone else..

_ They _ were good.

“Yeah?” Spot asked, looking at Crutchie.

“Yeah,” Crutchie replied softly. Without thinking about it, Spot leaned over slightly. As if taking the hint Crutchie scooted over and Spot rested his head on Crutchie’s shoulder and let his eyes flicker shut. He felt a couple of tears rolls down his cheeks, over his nose. He drew in a breath and let it shudder it out. He felt his lips move into a smile. He felt Crutchie intertwine their fingers. He felt peace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot wakes up to good news- but it changes his perception of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, warning for mentions of child abuse!

 

 

_“Spot, Spot, wake up!”_

Someone was shaking his shoulders- he didn’t realize it was Race until he opened his eyes. He tried to pull away from the touch but Race’s fingers were tight around his arms and Crutchie’s voice wouldn’t let him drift back to sleep. He opened his eyes fully, trying to push the want to rest more away.

“Wha-what?” He asked absently. He looked around. The lodge was mostly cleared out- the only people there were Race, Crutchie, Boston, and himself.

“Y-you’re fr-free.” Boston smiled.

“What?” Spot asked again.

“Look at this morning’s pape, Spot,” Crutchie sat down next to Spot, Race taking his crutch. Crutchie flipped through the pages and pointed to an article that was several columns long. “Someone came forward and denounced your father.”

Spot took the newspaper in his hands, the words seeming too good to be true. The article was titled **_Brooklyn Man Turns Out Monster,_ ** and Spot felt himself gasp and he looked through it.

Someone had told the police of his father's abusive ways, and Spot had a feeling he knew who. He had met his mother only once, a time when she had tried to break in and whisk him away, but his father had caught her and thrown her out, not before breaking her wrist and screaming in her face that if she ever showed her face again, she would be sorry. She had cried, had looked at Spot from where he was, confined to the couch because of a broken ankle, and whispered that she was sorry. Somehow, Spot knew she had saved him. She hadn’t been able to that day, back when he was younger, seven or so, but she had saved him now.

He read through the paper- her testimony and forsaking of his father. The last sentence was what really caught his eyes.

**_“The state of New York no longer looks to press charges against the suspect, the description of which she says matches her son, as it is believed to have been self-defense.”_ **

Spot’s heart leaped to his throat and tears form in the corners of his eyes.

“I-I’m free to leave the lodge,” He mumbled, almost unbelieving.

“Yeah!” Race spoke loudly, pushing a newsies cap on Spot’s head roughly, “Now you’se gotta actually earn your stay.”

His tone was comical and it made Spot’s heart soar. He was finally going to be to leave this godforsaken lodge, _finally do something._ The lack of action had been driving him mad. He reached up to adjust the cap, smiling widely at Race and Boston. Crutchie grabbed his hand. He looked over and saw Crutchie’s smile was somehow brighter than he’d ever seen it before.

“I’ll show you the ropes,” Crutchie said.

Crutchie pushed himself up and off the bed, Race handing his crutch back over to him. Crutchie positioned it under his arm and Spot hopped up to stand beside him. Boston patted his back, Spot could feel Boston’s hand quiver as he rested it on Spot’s shoulder.

“The wor-world is yours to con-conquer now,” Boston stuttered out. “Let’s go see it.”

 

///

 

The distribution center was just like every other building, but Spot found it to be beautiful. Boston led him through the gates and up to the desk.

“Tw-twenty papes for the new guy, _Wiesel_ ,” Boston smiled, putting two pieces of silver down on the desk.

“A new guy, eh?” The man, Wiesel, gave Spot a once-over and Spot felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “Reminds me of a certain description in the papes. Are you-”

“The papers, Weasel.” Race smiled falsely, cutting him off.

Wiesel grimaced at Race and rolled his eyes, but passed the papers over.

Spot followed the others as they walked away from the desk and out into the streets. He noticed for the first time that they all had their own stack of papers, Boston’s being the biggest, and Crutchie and Race’s looking about equal to each other.

“Wa-watch this,” Boston spoke, raising the paper over his head proudly. “Extra, extra! Re-re-read all about it!” He paused for a moment. “Women found dead in Central Park!”

Spot saw the attention of passersby be caught by Boston’s yelling. They came over and purchased papers, placing coins in Boston’s quivering hands. Once they were gone, he stuffed the coins into his pocket. He turned to Spot.

“The-the truth doesn’t matter in-in-in,” Boston paused for a second. “It doesn’t matter in a b-business like this. What m-matters is havin’ enough money to get by. Yeah?”

Spot nodded.

“You w-wanna try?”

Spot nodded, more enthusiastically than before.

“Okay! Here,” Boston handed the paper to Spot and Spot took it. He rose it about his head, thinking up a lie.

“Extra, extra! Politician turns out to be criminal!” Spot smiled as a woman walked over and bought the paper, grumbling something about how they all were these days. She placed a coin in his hand and he smiled down at it. His friends cheered loudly, Race clapping him on the back.

“You did it! Your first sale!” Crutchie was smiled at him and Spot felt his heart swell. This felt right. He was _happy_ , being in Manhattan and selling newspapers. It seemed to work perfectly.

The day rushed on. Spot’s voice felt horse by the end of the day and his pocket was jangling with loose change. He went with the other boys to the deli and purchased himself a sandwich.

Back at the lodge, he spoke with Crutchie.

“I’m gonna go sleep on the roof with Jack tonight,” Crutchie told him. “The weather is nice and you’se all settled in now, so if it won’t bother you-”

“Course not,” Spot said. Crutchie started to turn, but Spot reached out and caught his shoulder. “Thank you for everythin’, by the way. I..”

Spot trailed off but Crutchie nodded in understanding.

“It’s no problem.”

Crutchie disappeared and Spot settled into his bed. He was tired from the day, his skin felt different having been out in the sun so long for the first time in what felt like forever. It felt…. _strange_.

The lodging house had been his prison for the past couple of weeks, but now he was trying to envision it as his home. He loved the people here, the ones he had grown close to anyway, Race and Crutchie, but the others had all been his captors in his mind. They had gone out of the streets and sold his head, he did not know if they regretted it. He had not shared his past with anyone more than Crutchie, Race, and Boston- and Boston hadn’t even reciprocated. Suddenly, he felt alone in the lodge- surrounded by strangers who were ready to sell him out at the drop of a hat.

He reached his hands up to his arms, running his fingernails over the scars that rested there, trailing from his shoulders down. Some of them were still tender, but none of them had scabs anymore. He felt a phantom pain as he touched them- felt faintly the sting and heard softly the sizzle of skin burning. He wondered how many of the people here had been hurt like him. He wondered, if less prominently, how many of them would hurt kids like him.

He suddenly felt unsafe, suddenly felt like running even though he knew it was illogical. He felt lost, lonely, and scared. He envisioned Race pressing his unlit cigar into his scar and imagined that it could’ve burned to his bone. He saw Boston’s shaking hands wrapping around his throat, saw Crutchie bringing his aid down like it was a weapon over and over again till blood poured from Spot’s skull.

All the sudden he couldn’t breathe, suddenly he was choking on blood, surrounded by bodies and broken spirits. His father’s house had been a prison and the lodging house had been his next- he couldn’t live here- it wasn’t _safe_ . It wasn’t _home_.

He pushed himself up from the bed, heart racing, hands quivering as he moved the sheets away from his body. He felt faint. He heard people asking him what he was doing- thought he might have heard Race’s voice among them- but he ignored them. It didn’t matter. This _wasn’t_ home, and they _weren’t_ family. Spot had neither- had only mirages and imposters, no one who really cared.

No one tried to stop him as he ran out of the lodging house doors-

_-except they did._

He didn’t know how long he ran- didn’t know how long it took. He only knew that he was panting and there were tears running down his face when he came to. He was standing on the edge of the Brooklyn bridge. No- he wasn’t standing- he was on his hands and knees, his body wracked with heavy sobs. Crutchie was on the ground next to him, equally out of breath. Crutchie was crying, too, but Spot didn’t know why.

Spot felt cold air wiping his shoulders, shoulders that no one was touching, touching his heat scarred arms and pulling at his sweaty hair. He heard Crutchie whispering comforts to him- but Crutchie’s voice was not alone.

Spot glanced at the people surrounding him- Crutchie, on his knees next to Spot, Race by Crutchie's side and Jack on his other, and Boston standing nearby, trying to keep people from staring. Jack surprised him the most- they hadn’t gotten off on the right foot, maybe, but Spot was still there, supporting him.

Jack’s lips weren’t moving, but Spot could see the concern in his eyes.

Crutchie and Race were both chatting up a storm, however, begging Spot to calm down, telling him that they were there and that he was safe, promising that everything would be fine. Crutchie’s face was bright red, his eyes welling over with tears and he could tell that Race was not far from being in a similar state.

He stopped for a second- focused on their faces. He focused on their words and the sound of the wind whistling in his ears. He focused on the feeling of the cold on his arms, the sensation of his hair and fabric being pulled by the wind. He looked down the bridge to his old home- and thought on this new one, weighed the pros and cons.

He made a choice.

He gathered himself, swallowing his tears. Crutchie noticed and brushed away his own while speaking.

“Spot? Are you with us? Are you okay?”

Spot nodded.

“Can I touch you?”

Spot nodded hesitantly and Race reached out, intertwining their fingers.

_“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay.”_

“No, no I’m not,” Spot responded, sniffling and wiping his nose with his arm. “I… I don’t think I can…. I can stay with you guys…. I'm sorry. I just…” He hesitated for a moment, his voice caught in his throat as he watched Race’s face shift to a weird sort of fear. He watched Crutchie’s shift to something he’d define as disappointment. “I need to go.”

Spot started to stand, letting go of Race’s hand. They took their hands off of him, giving him space to stand.

“You don’t have to go,” Jack said distantly. “There’s space.”

“No there ain’t. You know that.” What Spot said was true- they always needed more beds.

“That ain’t what he meant and you know it,” Crutchie responded. “We’s want you with us.”

“I-I know,” Spot responded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But I.. I can’t deal with it. That house- it was my prison. I feel like- I feel like I gotta stay there. I feel-”

Spot froze up, not able to find the right word.

“T-t-tr-trapped?” Boston asked, turning to face Spot. Spot nodded, noticing for the first time that Boston’s eyes were glassy. Boston looked to Crutchie, Race, and Jack, telling them something Spot couldn’t hear.

“You don’t got-gotta st-stay with us,” Boston said. Race made a sound of protest but Jack’s glare shut him down. “You can go wherever you want. But-b-ut go somewhere safe. Be safe. You deserve to be s-safe. Ya’ know that, hm?”

Spot nodded, trying to force it to be true.

“Is this where you wanna go?” Boston gestured vaguely to the Brooklyn side of the Bridge. Spot glanced over.

“I-I guess,” Spot shrugged.

“W-want me ta-ta walk with you to-to the Brooklyn lodging-house?”

Spot thought it over for a moment, then nodded. No one would know him. He could run if he wanted.

“Okay.” Boston smiled. “Race, Jack, Crutchie, go home. I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait,” Race interjected. “Can we at least say goodbye ‘fore ‘e goes?”

“I ain’t dyin’,” Spot mumbled absently.

“We know that,” Crutchie said softly. “We’s just gonna miss ya, that’s all.”

Race made a gesture with his arms that Spot understood to mean _hug_. Spot nodded and Race rushed him, throwing out his arms and wrapping them around Spot. Crutchie approached more slowly and joined in. It was awkward- Crutchie’s crutch jabbing Race’s side and Spot trying to make as little contact and as much as possible and the same time. Yet it was cozy- it was how they were supposed to be, Spot guessed. Jack stood by- patted Spot’s back awkwardly. Spot appreciated the effort.

After some time they fell apart. Spot suddenly felt cold- but it felt right in some respect.

“You ready?”

Spot took a deep breath and then let it out. He nodded as confidently as he could mutter.

Standing side-by-side, him and Boston crossed the bridge.

 

///

 

“Do you think he’ll be alright?”

Race spoke absently as they walked back to the lodge. The streets were quiet and it was late. The birds weren’t out and neither were the working children of New York. All were tucked into the beds in lodges or makeshift sleeping areas in alleys. The streets were damp with the afternoon's mild rain. Crutchie’s crutch made a soft clicking sound as they walked, echoing out and sweeping over the street.

“I think so,” Jack replied. “I didn’t spend much time with ‘im, but ‘e seemed real bullheaded.”

“Takes one to know one,” Crutchie quipped and Jack punched his arm softly, then ruffled his hair.

“He’ll be okay,” Jack said again. Race nodded, his eyes distant.

“I’m just gonna miss ‘im, I think.”

“Ain’t like he’s dying,” Crutchie said shrugging. “He ain’t too far- Brooklyn’s just a walk away, hm?”

“It’s a long walk,” Race grumbled.

“Others are longer,” Jack said.

“I guess,” Race shrugged.

“I’ll miss ‘im too, but we can just go visit whenever.”

“Brooklyn’s leader don’t like us goin’ over to sell all too much,” Jack reminded.

“Eh, won’t be long. I bet ya ‘fore too long Spot’ll be their leader.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so,” Crutchie replied, smirking but not explaining. “Now let’s hurry up an get home. It’s cold out here.”

 

///

 

Boston and Spot arrived at the Brooklyn lodging hou _s_ e shortly. Spot felt electricity buzzing underneath his skin. Boston opened the door and lead him in.

“ _Roger_?”

Boston called into the lodge. It was somehow more crowded than the Manhattan lodge, the boys more energetic. They were shoving against each other and play fighting, the air warm and noisy. A boy pushed through the crowd. Spot couldn’t see him at first- could only see the boys around him moving out of the way. Eventually, he emerged to face them.

Roger was a relatively short guy with a lean but tough looking stature. He had blond hair tucked under a dark hat. He was wearing a red henley and gray pants, no shoes. Most notably, he had an eyepatch covering his right eye.

“What’s all this ‘bout, Boston?”

“Ha-have an extra bed? Spot here is-is wantin’ to move back to Brooklyn.”

Roger glanced Spot over, his one eye tracing up and down his height. His eye caught on Spot’s arms, his scars, and then moved to Spot’s face, his brows furrowed.

“Ain’t you the kid who murdered his dad?”

Spot swallowed, but his lack of response spoke for itself. Roger nodded, then smiled.

“You brought us some of the best sales of the month, kid.”

Roger jutted out a hand, now looking to Boston, who seemed relieved.

“‘Course we gots an extra bed.”

Roger and Boston ended their handshake. Boston smiled at Spot and then patted his back. Spot turned around, wanting to hug Boston for some strange reason. He decided not to. Instead, he just smiled.

“Thank you, Boston.”

Boston smiled back.

“No problem.”

Spot turned back to Roger as Boston started to leave.

Roger put out a hand for Spot to shake. Spot took it after a moment, shaking vigorously.

“Spot, was it?”

Spot nodded.

“I’m Roger. Welcome to Brooklyn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes The Long Road! I hope you guys enjoyed it. Sorry for taking so long to update, things got crazy over the summer. I'm going to focus a little on finishing some of my other open projects before I write anything new for Something New Everyday. Thank you guys so much for reading!
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, as well as kudos and constructive criticism!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [ EducationalAdmiral! ](https://educationaladmiral.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Constructive criticism on how I handled each character and the accents would be greatly appreciated, as well as other comments and kudos!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [ EducationalAdmiral! ](https://educationaladmiral.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'm planning on another chapter or two but I'm not sure yet. Tell me if you're interested!


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